


Everything We Never Had

by melaniatrump



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mpreg, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Non-Linear Narrative, Parenthood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:54:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28359651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melaniatrump/pseuds/melaniatrump
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier are the proud fathers of a happy, curious four-year-old. It’s wonderful, but like all good parents do, they worry about whether or not they’re messing up their kid. Geralt is concerned that their daughter is missing out on a chance at a normal life, meanwhile Jaskier fears exposing her to the rigidity and humdrum of a conventional upbringing. A trip to meet with Jaskier's estranged family helps them come to an understanding.-or-Geraskier domestic fluffery interspersed with the story of how the two went from friends to lovers to pregnancy partners(?) to adorable, devoted gay dads. Little bit of rational big sister Ciri, little bit of Auntie Triss, and a whole lotta cherry-picked cannon (mostly games + show). Will update regularly.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 9
Kudos: 101





	1. Crossroads: Jaskier

They have to stop. Lovely.

They’re _so_ close to Lettenhove castle—they could have made it by nightfall under better conditions—but the rain is coming in too heavy for them to continue on any further. They have no option at this point but to wait out the storm.

Luckily, there’s a settlement just a bit off their path: Rodromir, a small market town situated along the confluence of the rivers Buine and Nimnar. There’s an inn there, and Jaskier remembers it being decent if not a bit run down. It’ll have to do, and it’ll just be for a night anyhow.

They make their way to the inn, and Geralt swings himself off of Roach’s back. “Get a room,” he calls to Jaskier over the whistling wind. “I’ll get them to the stables.”

Jaskier doesn’t argue. Purchasing a space at the inn feels like a much easier task than hitching up horses in this weather, so he dismounts from Pegasus. The girl left sitting in the saddle extends her arms to Jaskier, and Jaskier obligingly lifts her off the horse and down onto his hip.

“Be careful,” Jaskier tells Geralt.

It’s a silly thing to say, and Jaskier knows. But whether it’s hitching their horses in inclement weather or taking down a voracious fiend, it’s all the same. Jaskier wants Geralt to be careful.

Geralt nods wordlessly and takes the reins of both of their horses to lead them away.

“Alright then, here we go,” Jaskier says to himself as he heaves the child further up on his hip. 

Trudging through the ankle-deep mud is comically difficult, and particularly so with the extra 40-plus pounds of dead weight hanging onto his side. After a struggle, bard and child burst through the door of the inn, the very picture of exhaustion and misery. Jaskier loosens his grip on the girl— _gods_ , she’s getting heavy—and allows her to slide down to the floor.

Jaskier throws the hood of his cloak back and sighs, “Sweet Meletile.”

“Raining?” asks the innkeep.

“Oh, a touch.” Jaskier sloshes over to the inkeep’s table, heaving another relieved sigh. “A private room please; two beds, and if you could have a bath brought up as soon as possible that would be much—” 

He stops, interrupted by a tugging at his sleeve. Jaskier looks down to address the source of the interruption. “What is it?”

The eyes looking back up at him are large and fearful. The girl, shivering slightly now, speaks hardly above a whisper. “I want to sleep with you and Papa.”

Jaskier’s brow scrunches. “But just last week you said you—”

The girl shakes her head insistently, and her grip on Jaskier’s sleeve tightens.

Jaskier smiles reassuringly and gives the girl’s clenched hand a loving pat before turning back to the innkeep. “Ah, changed my mind. Just one bed, then. We’ll still be needing the bath.”

The inkeep nods in agreement, but then stops for a moment to look closely at Jaskier. 

Oh, no.

Jaskier’s family is very, _very_ well known in these parts and probably still despised for good reason. Minimizing his association with them won't be made any easier by the fact that he and his siblings are near copies of one another, but he wants to lay as low as possible.

“Hello there,” Jaskier starts with a nervous smile, “if you think I look familiar for some reason, I can assure I don’t. I just have one of those faces.”

The innkeeper's eyebrows shoot up in realization and her posture immediately improves. “O-Oh! Master Julian, my lord, please forgive me. It’s been so long and—”

Jaskier grunts in frustration and looks suspiciously over each shoulder. “ _Shh!_ Must you tell the whole province? I’ve had a long night, and I’d rather not end it with being tarred and feathered, if that’s alright with you.” He fishes around in his pack for some coin and drops it on the table between them, silently cursing the stars.

The inkeep pockets the coin and asks, her voice quieter now, “So it’s you we’ll be paying our dues to henceforth, my lord?”

“It is certainly not.”

“Well, if you don’t mind me saying, my lord, it’s an odd time to be traveling through Rodromir if—”

Wearily, Jaskier interjects, “Please, my good madam, if you could refrain from calling me ‘my lord’ or anything of the sort, that would be much appreciated. It’s Jaskier. Julian, if you _absolutely_ insist. And regardless of any unfortunate similarities I may share with _a specific family_ , I’m but a simple traveling bard. I’ve no interest in your dues or the dues of anyone, anywhere.”

“Bard,” says the inkeep with an amused tilt of the head. “Then you’ll play for us?”

“Perhaps,” Jaskier says as he adjusts the lute case strapped on his shoulder. “It depends on whether or not I’m allowed to be just a bard or if I’ve already been cast as a member of the _you-know-what_ -family.”

The inkeep nods understandingly. “Your secret is safe with me, my lo—sir.”

“What secret, Daddy?” asks the small voice to Jaskier's side.

“Nothing, dear heart, nothing at all,” he says as he swipes a key from the inkeep’s hand. “Daddy’s just being petty. Come on then, off we go.”

Once they reach their room, Jaskier is barely able to get the door open before his daughter pushes past him, runs in, and excitedly throws herself onto the bed.

Jaskier groans exhaustedly. “Leo, off the bed, darling, _please_ _?_ If I wanted us to sleep in mud we’d have just gone to the stables with the horses.”

Leo whines and rolls over onto her back, making no attempts to get down from the bed.

Jaskier does feel bad for the girl. The first spot of fun she gets in hours, and here he is ruining it. 

“You can jump on the bed all you wish when you’re clean. I promise,” he negotiates. “Now come here, we need to get you out of these clothes.”

Jaskier waves her over, and she slides off the bed with a groan.

The sopping, wet clothes are stuck to the girl’s body, but Jaskier is able to peel, wedge, and roll them off after a bit of a struggle. The task isn’t made any easier by the fact that Leo will _not sit still_ , but he manages, leaving the girl to bound off in just her undergarments for the time being. It will have to do for now.

Jaskier sighs. That taken care of, he goes about inspecting the room for nits. It’s difficult to see with just the candlelight, but he’d rather wait for Geralt to get the fireplace going than hurt himself trying.

When Geralt comes in from the stables, Leo is laying on a bearskin rug, pulling small tufts of fur out of it while humming cheerfully. Jaskier is stripped down to his breeches, on all fours and looking behind a crate near the door.

“What are you doing, Jaskier?”

“Oh!” Jaskier’s head pops up. “Just in time! Would you mind doing your witcher magic on the fireplace there? I saw something jump behind here, but it could just be visions from the sleep deprivation. Some more light would be _so_ helpful, love. Thanks.”

Geralt drops the bags he’s carrying near the door and freezes. His brow furrows. “One bed?” 

Jaskier sits up ramrod straight, _shh_ -ing and glancing back at Leo. Thankfully, the girl is none the wiser. 

“She wants to sleep with us,” Jaskier whispers.

Geralt does not whisper. “Why?”

Jaskier casts another furtive glance at their daughter before replying through gritted teeth, “Be- _cause…_ She’s afraid. Of…” He cocks his head, inviting Geralt to finish the thought in his mind. 

Blessedly, Geralt refrains from blurting out the answer and instead purses his lips into a thin line. He sighs and continues into the room, heavy footfalls straining the floorboards beneath him. Geralt snaps his fingers, and the room is filled with light.

* * *

_Annnd_ they’re stuck in Rodromir. _Lovely._

For how long, who knows? It’ll definitely be more than just the night.

Both rivers by which the town lies are flooded over, and the entire place is surrounded by water up to a man’s shoulders. The roads leading out of town are completely untraversable, so it looks like they’ll be staying at the inn until the waters abate.

Of all trips to be delayed, and of all places to be stranded.

Well, at least Jaskier, Geralt, and Leo are bathed, warm and blissfully _dry._ And as they wind down for the night, Jaskier is seated on the bed in between Geralt’s legs, receiving the back massage of his life. 

Jaskier just sits and melts into the sensation of Geralt’s hands kneading circles along each side of his spine up to his hairline, fingertips then rubbing the sides of his neck. The stress of the road tends to exacerbate the dull pain in his already troublesome back, so it has become custom for Geralt to help gently coax the tension away on nights like these.

The only sounds in the room come from the gentle crackling of the fire and Leo’s soft humming. She’s drawing a picture while laying belly down on the rug, feet kicking in time with her song. Her tongue is pushed past her lips in concentration, and she only stops drawing to occasionally push her hair out of her eyes. The firelight is painting her damp, alabaster waves shades of yellow and red, and it’s quite the vision.

She looks entertained; happy. Thank the gods.

Jaskier has been paying close attention to Leo throughout the trip thus far, on close watch for any signs that she might be displeased. He’d never wanted to bring her on this trip, but the only thing worse than taking her to Lettenhove would have been leaving her behind. So now, Jaskier only hopes he can minimize the amount of tedium he must subject her to. And now that they’re stranded, he’s even more concerned with her disposition.

Leo stops humming.

“Papa, what color are sea dragons?” she asks, looking down at her picture with a furrowed brow.

“There are no dragons in the sea,” Geralt answers as he continues to rub the heels of his hands down Jaskier’s back.

“Oh.”

They watch as their daughter appraises her artwork, adorably tilting her head to one side and tapping her pointer finger to her lips in thought. Jaskier’s heart clenches in his chest.

After a moment, Leo picks up a green pastel and trudges ahead with her (apparently surrealist) masterpiece. “Are there mermaids in the sea, Papa?”

“Yes.”

“And fish?”

Geralt huffs a laugh. “Yes. Lots.”

“What color are the fish?”

“There are fish of every color. There are even rainbow fish. With silver scales.”

This causes Leo’s eyes to go wide with wonder. “ _Wooow_ , really?” she breathes out.

“Yes. Do you want—”

Geralt stops. His hands on Jaskier’s back also stop. Not for long, but Jaskier notes the pause. Before he can ask what’s the matter, Leo pipes back up.

“Have you seen a mermaid, Papa?”

Geralt clears his throat and continues on with the massage. “Yes.”

“Do they have fangs?”

“Some of them do.”

Jaskier gasps and looks over his shoulder to peer at Geralt’s face. “We haven’t told her the story about the mermaid cove, have we? The time where the ship carrying the Erveluce sank?”

Geralt frowns and asks, “Is that story appropriate?” 

“We can leave out _those_ parts, obviously.”

Before they’re able to resolve the question as to whether or not this is a story made for children’s ears, the child in question already decides on her own that it’s storytime. Leo excitedly begins scooting herself closer to her parents, exclaiming, “Story!”

And so, Jaskier takes a story about a cove of drunken, randy mermaids and weaves it into a family-friendly epic rivaling the most revered classics. Not a difficult feat for an award-winning bard, but storytelling is always easier with a good audience.

And Leo will forever be Jaskier’s favorite audience. The way she listens with rapt attention, reacts at all the right moments, asks all the right questions. It’s how she approaches the world in general: with a wide-eyed sense of wonderment and a deep curiosity about _everything_. 

She’s happiest when she’s learning, or—even better—out in the world having her own experiences. A ratty old inn in Rodromir may not be the most conducive to this, but luckily, nearly anything can be made into a grand, fantastical adventure to a four-year-old.

A stick can be a mage’s staff, a dusty crate can be a pirate ship, Rodromir can be a fantastical wonderland, and hopefully his family home at Lettenhove castle will be anything but what it is (a hellish, oversized rathole where dreams go to die).

They'll make it through. They’ll need each other and the help of a little imagination, but they’ll make it through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rodromir does not exist in the Witcherverse; I made it up from the Greek word for crossroads (stavrodrómi). There isn't much information on the web about where exactly Lettenhove is in Redania, so I'm just putting it right by my made-up town cause it's my fic and I do what I want.


	2. Dragons in the Sea

There were no dragons in the sea, in the sky, anywhere—or, at least, this is what Jaskier thought before Geralt set him straight all those years ago on the dragon hunt.

Actually, Geralt set him straight in more ways than one during that hunt, didn’t he?

_ If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands. _

Well, then.

All Jaskier ever wanted for Geralt were blessings, so he would take himself off the witcher’s hands if that’s what he had to do. That’s all there was to it.

It wasn’t going to be easy to live without him, that much he was sure of. No one would ever come close as a companion and friend, but it appeared that that sense of affection went only one way. It had always gone one way, hadn’t it?

Gods, Jaskier was such an idiot for not seeing it earlier. And then he  _ really  _ thought he could invite Geralt on some getaway, and Geralt might  _ actually  _ say yes to him. What was he thinking? And what if Geralt  _ had  _ said yes? Was he going to declare his love and then whisk Jaskier off in his strong arms to some romantic faraway destination? 

Of course not. It was clear who Geralt wanted, and it wasn’t Jaskier. It would never be Jaskier, but Jaskier had foolishly allowed himself to have hope. It was that hope that brought him too close to Geralt too often; there was too  _ much  _ of Jaskier for Geralt’s liking, and now it had ruined their friendship.

What’s done was done. Jaskier would move on with his life, or whatever “life” that meant without Geralt. He’d do his best to find joy in something else, do his best not to dwell on what was.

If only Geralt was an easy person to forget.

Luckily, as it turned out, his vain attempts to forget Geralt were made entirely moot when they ran into each other in Hengfors not long after their mountainside spat.

Except. Geralt wasn’t alone. 

He was with Cirilla, the princess of the land formerly called Cintra. The princess whose unwelcome presence in Geralt’s life was blamed on Jaskier’s meddling. And yet here was Geralt, holding her hand and looking every bit as protective as one would be with a child bound to them by fate.

Interesting. 

Their make-up conversation was short. 

“Hello, Geralt.”

“You left.”

“You told me to.”

“You never do what I say.”

“Then why say it?”

“I was angry.”

“And was that my fault?”

“...No. It wasn’t. And I didn’t…”

“Come on, Geralt. You can do it.”

“...I didn’t mean it.”

Jaskier clapped Geralt jovially on the shoulder. “Ah, there it is! Apology accepted, my friend. You know, I knew you’d come crawling back sooner or later; they all do.”

Geralt’s mouth twitched as he tried to hide a smile. “Don’t push it.”

Easy as that.

And so they were off, together again, the dynamic duo plus one. At first, Jaskier was unsure about what it would be like to travel with a child, much less one being ruthlessly pursued by a kingdom who killed the rest of her family and were out to finish the job. But, as it turned out, Ciri was actually  _ fantastic  _ company.

She was a bit shy at first, and overly cautious in a way that only trauma could make a child, but she was also great fun. Having grown up in court, Ciri was well-studied enough to banter with Jaskier for hours about art and literature. She understood all of his references and laughed heartily at his jokes (especially the ones made at Geralt’s expense). It was astonishing how easily she fit into their dynamic, and it was a welcome bonus that her mere presence succeeded in turning Geralt into significantly less of an asshole.

Geralt was still his taciturn, grumpy self, but he had grown a bit softer since Ciri came into the picture. He was more careful with his words, less quick to anger. Even his stiff, unpracticed attempts at providing comfort to Ciri were endearing. Geralt was trying. 

Because  _ of course _ he was. Geralt may have been emotionally constipated, terse, and sometimes a bit of an idiot, but Jaskier had never met a more benevolent soul in his entire life.

And, well, if Jaskier was still senselessly,  _ achingly  _ in love with the big, sexy idiot, that would be his little secret. He had gotten a second chance at a friendship with Geralt, and he was not going to take it lightly. He would respect Geralt’s boundaries, give him a wider berth, stop dropping ‘hints’ all the time. 

Jaskier would never stop loving Geralt, but he loved him enough to love him in secret if that’s what was necessary. His love would go with him to his grave, living on only through his admiring poems and songs. Long after he was dust, people would hear the bard Jaskier’s impassioned odes to the White Wolf and think, ‘This fellow was obviously in love with this witcher; I wonder if his affections were ever returned?’

But alas, they would never be. This was Jaskier’s lot in life: to love from a distance, to watch from afar as his muse gave his heart to another, to pour the affections he couldn’t bestow upon Geralt directly into his art instead, and to remain endlessly, unrequitedly devoted to his muse despite it all until the end of his days.

Eh. Not bad as far as legacies go. The whole ‘so tragic it’s actually romantic’ angle? Rather fitting for a poet, actually. 

Or at least, that’s what his fate  _ would  _ have been if Geralt hadn’t gone and turned everything on its head.

Just weeks after they began travelling together again, Geralt, Jaskier, and Ciri found themselves camping with a caravan of dwarves. One night, after the camp had gone quiet and Ciri was tucked safely away in a tent, Jaskier and Geralt sat on a log next to a campfire at a far corner of the camp. 

They passed a bottle of Mahakaman spirit between themselves, reminiscing and swapping stories as the world around them got fuzzier with each drink. The conversation eventually hit a lull, and a comfortable silence fell over them—the rare type of silence that Jaskier didn’t feel the need to fill. He instead sighed contentedly and looked up at the stars, thinking to himself how  _ nice  _ it was to be able to share space so effortlessly with his best friend again.

“What’s at the coast?” Geralt asked to his left.

Jaskier looked over at him. “What’s that?”

Geralt threw back a swig of spirit and held the bottle out to Jaskier. “You wanted to go to the coast. Why?”

Great. Everything between them had been going so well; why on earth did Geralt want to dredge  _ this  _ conversation up of all things? That sad, fool-hearted attempt was the last time he tried revealing his feelings for Geralt, and it had failed spectacularly. So spectacularly that it nearly ruined their friendship for good.

Jaskier limply took the bottle from Geralt. He took a small sip just to stall a bit, exhaling through the sting of it. “Oh, that,” he said, aiming for nonchalance. “It wasn’t important.”

“I didn’t ask if it was important. I asked why you wanted to go.” 

Rolling his eyes, Jaskier looked over at Geralt. There was a serious look on his face, as if he wasn’t going to back down from this topic until he received an answer. Geralt was stubborn, so Jaskier reluctantly said, “It was never about the  _ coast _ . Or any place in particular. I just wanted to get away from everything for a while. That’s all. It was nothing.”

“You wanted me to go,” Geralt replied matter-of-factly.

“Thought perhaps you could use a break, too.”

“A break from what?”

“Everything. The world.  _ Witchering _ .”

“But not from you?”

Jaskier squinted at Geralt, trying to make something of the man’s inscrutable expression. “What do you mean?”

Geralt blinked, then looked away. As if trying to keep Jaskier on tenterhooks, he picked up a branch from the ground in front of him and began to stoke the fire a bit.

Jaskier watched on anxiously, clinging to the neck of the bottle in his lap like a lifeline. He didn’t understand why they were having this conversation, but if they could stop, that would be lovely. It felt dangerously like picking at the scab of their newly-healed friendship. 

Geralt’s attention was still focused on the fire when he flatly said, “You’re just usually more forthright about your romantic pursuits.”

Jaskier’s jaw dropped.

Did Geralt…

Did Geralt just, for the first time in the decades they’ve known each other, actually acknowledge Jaskier’s pining? And did he really just do so offhandedly as if he was commenting on the weather—as if this topic wasn’t obviously deeply embarrassing for Jaskier and  _ at least _ deserving of a little tact?

Geralt kept poking away at the fire disinterestedly as Jaskier stammered, trying to collect himself enough to produce a coherent sentence. Failing at that, the best he could think to do was resort to mockery.

“ _ YoU’Re uSuAlly mOre fOrThRigHt aBoUt _ —Oh, fuck you, Geralt. What was I supposed to do, lay myself at your feet? Jump you like one of your sorceresses? It’s bad enough that I made a pass at you; you don’t have to rub it in. Ass.”

He punched Geralt in the arm for good measure, and the witcher caught the blow like a boulder catching a leaf blown into its side.

Unfazed, Geralt continued to stoke the fire a bit more with the branch in his hand before tossing it into the flames.

“I just want you to speak plainly,” he said coolly.

Jaskier shook his head in disbelief, and his eyes rolled up to the heavens. “He speaks monosyllabically, but he wants  _ me  _ to speak plainly,” he said bitterly to some imaginary third party before knocking back another painful chug of the spirit.

“You do with everyone else,” Geralt replied.

Jaskier winced through the larger-than-intended mouthful of alcohol and set the empty bottle on the ground. “Everyone else doesn’t have your temper or your utter lack of interest. Why would I have ever been forward about something that was never going to happen? It’s not like it’s something...you…”

Jaskier trailed off as he took notice of Geralt scooting towards him until their knees touched.

“Not like something you…” Jaskier tried again, ending with a gulp as Geralt’s hand lifted towards his face. “Ah, Geralt?”

“Hm?” Geralt replied as his rough fingertips made contact with Jaskier’s cheek. His hand slid across the side of Jaskier’s face to the base of his neck, holding him there in a move that was equal parts tender and possessive. Geralt’s eyes were steady and focused, boring into Jaskier’s own with what could only be described as resolve.

_ Intent _ .

Jaskier’s head was swimming, face hot, and breaths short. “Geralt, what are you doing?” he asked softly into the space between them. 

“Kissing you,” Geralt replied, low in his chest. “Is that alrigh—”

Jaskier cut Geralt off with a huffed laugh and an insistent nod. He took two handfuls of the front of Geralt’s shirt, and then were warm, chapped lips pressed against his own.

As far as kisses go, this one was dry and sweet— _ soft _ in a way Jaskier hadn’t expected from Geralt. Humanizing the witcher may have been the bard’s lifelong project, be he rather shamefully objectified Geralt in his fantasies, he had to admit. In his debauched imagination, Geralt was always brutish, feral—open mouths crashing together, groping, clothes ripping...that sort of thing. 

But the real Geralt was better than he could have ever imagined. Jaskier wanted to write songs about  _ this  _ Geralt—this beautiful, gentle soul who caressed his cheek, asked for permission, kissed him tenderly. Who coaxed Jaskier’s lips open with his own, allowed their tongues to probe forward slowly until they touched.  _ This  _ Geralt who smelled like wood ash and tasted of spiced liquor, whose sword-calloused fingers fanned out reverently into his hair.

Geralt turned Jaskier’s head so that their mouths could slot together more easily, and Jaskier couldn’t help the moan that escaped his lips as the kiss deepened. He ran his hands up the witcher’s strong chest and dug his fingers into the heavenly mass of his hair as their tongues rolled around one another’s slowly.

_ Finally _ . 

A near lifelong dream realized, Jaskier was melting, unravelling; willpower fading and being replaced with sheer want and  _ greed _ .

Without a second thought, (or first thought, really) Jaskier leaned up and swung a leg over Geralt’s lap. Jaskier planted himself there on top of the man like it was where he’d always belonged, and if the move surprised Geralt, he made no indication.

They continued to lick and breathe and  _ moan  _ into each other’s mouths, releasing all of the tension of the past couple of decades into this one moment, everything laid bare between them. One of Geralt’s hands continued to hold Jaskier’s head in place, and the other slipped down to splay across Jaskier’s lower back. His  _ lower  _ back , as in the lowest one’s hand could be on his back and still be considered on his back.

Also contrary to Jaskier’s depraved fantasies, Geralt was being entirely respectful about this whole thing. Jaskier was touched by this, but he really did  _ not  _ want Geralt to be respectful. He  _ wanted  _ those massive hands on his ass, on his bare skin, on his... _ everything _ . He wanted all Geralt was willing to give. He had never wanted anything more.

Jaskier felt himself getting hard, and he shamelessly rolled his hips against Geralt’s lower abdomen to goad him on.

Oh, and Geralt was goaded. With a growl low in his chest, he broke the kiss to run his tongue along where Jaskier’s neck met his collarbone. 

“ _ Mnh _ , Geralt,” Jaskier whispered as his eyes fluttered shut. Geralt nipped at his skin there, drawing a whine out of him that he had to bite his lip to partly suppress.

“Geralt, that’s...” Jaskier rolled his hips down, feeling the growing hardness in Geralt’s lap. “You’re so... _ fuck _ .”

The hand on Jaskier’s back began to shift even lower and—

“Oi!”

The trance shattered. Jaskier scrambled up and off of Geralt’s lap in a second flat, panicked eyes following the sound of laughter to their left. 

Yarpen Zigren stood there, leaning against a tentpole with his arms folded across his chest and an amused look on his face. “Oh, don’t try and kick dirt over yer shit now, fancy. I saw plenty.”

Geralt snarled, “Fuck off, Yarpen.”

“Could say the same to you, witcher. Take your bard to a tent if ye wanna have a go at ‘im for cryin’ out—” Yarpen stopped, apparently taking note of the murderous look on Geralt’s face. He put his hands up in surrender. “B-but no bother, I’m just passin through. Ye lads have fun.”

Yarpen scuttled off while muttering something about  _ I knew it _ and  _ indecency  _ under his breath.

Once he was gone, Jaskier turned his attention back to Geralt. The witcher was still sitting on the log, eyes wild, hair going every which way, skin flushed, and mouth surrounded by a wet ring of their combined saliva. He looked insane. Irresistible.

“I guess he’s right,” said Jaskier as he tugged his doublet back in place. “About being out in the open like this.”

Geralt’s wild eyes looked Jaskier’s body up and down, causing Jaskier to feel like a piece of meat in the best possible way.

“If we go to my tent,” Geralt started, “do you think you can be quiet?”

No _. _

“Yes,” Jaskier said.

Definitely not.  _ Quiet? _ How on earth could anyone be  _ quiet  _ while fucking Geralt of Rivia? But surely, Jaskier wasn’t going to give up the opportunity just because he knew he had no chance of keeping himself together. And to his credit, he did  _ try  _ to be quiet.

His efforts proved futile almost immediately; the first thing he did as he entered the tent was kick over a bag of potions, sending bottles clinking and rolling loudly across the ground. In Jaskier’s defense, it was completely dark, and Geralt had left the bag in the doorway to begin with, the dunce. Jaskier winced and mouthed  _ sorry  _ at him anyway. Geralt sighed and his eyes—glowing bright amber in the dark—gave a long, frustrated blink.

As he was being undressed, Jaskier tried not to tell Geralt how long he'd wanted this for, how he couldn’t wait to touch Geralt, how good it all felt. He tried, but his impassioned whispers got progressively louder and more desperate, and Geralt had to shush him repeatedly. 

Jaskier did the best he could to not moan with abandon as Geralt’s adept tongue rolled around his nipple and those big, rough hands squeezed his bare ass in time with the witcher’s hips rolling against Jaskier’s thigh.

“ _ Shh _ ,” Geralt lifted up to say, glowing eyes squinted angrily.

“Sorry,” Jaskier whispered.

Again, when Geralt’s trousers came off and Jaskier saw the silhouette of his massive cock standing proudly in the dark. Jaskier exclaimed, “Sweet Melet—!”

“ _ Shh, Jaskier! _ ”

“Sorry, sorry!”

When Geralt held both of their cocks in hand and started thrusting, Jaskier couldn’t help but let out a breathy, semi-coherent torrent of, “Geralt, oh fuck, Geralt I’ve been...gods, you’re even bigger than I... _ mmph _ —” 

Geralt clamped a hand over Jaskier’s mouth. It was supposed to make him shut up, but it made things even hotter, so Jaskier kept blathering muffled expletives into Geralt’s palm.

Jaskier eventually came with a choked sigh, face tucked into the crook of Geralt’s neck.

Geralt whispered, “You finished.”

“Mm-hm,” said Jaskier as he nodded dumbly against Geralt’s clammy skin.

“Hm. I thought that would be louder.”

Satisfied beyond measure and still a bit drunk, Jaskier fell asleep with his head on Geralt’s firm, steadily rising chest. 

Upon waking, Jaskier first took note of his stabbing headache and groaned. Then, he noticed that there was a body under him. Solid. Scarred. Unmistakably Geralt’s.

So. Jaskier  _ hadn’t  _ dreamed up the previous night. Geralt  _ had  _ kissed him,  _ had  _ taken him to bed (or to tent, rather). And judging by the way Geralt had woken him up (a soft run of his fingers through Jaskier’s hair and a gently mumbled, “It’s morning.”), it didn’t appear as if the big curmudgeon regretted the previous night at all.

This was real.

This was where they stood now.

And it, Jaskier hoped, was only the beginning.


	3. Defender of Rodromir: Geralt

Geralt’s mind is wandering again. Not good. He can’t afford to be distracted right now.

Not that a drowner poses any real threat to a witcher of his experience, but any opponent can get the upper hand in a fight if he’s careless.

He refocuses and dodges a swipe of webbed claws aimed for his chest. The drowner stumbles forward with a frustrated growl, leaving its back to Geralt just long enough for him to slash it down. His sword slices the grotesque thing in half at the abdomen, and it falls into the water below with a gurgling shriek.

Geralt keeps his sword raised as he conducts one last survey of his surrounding area. 

He’s standing in shallow water, and over a dozen drowner corpses float around him in pools of their own blood and slime. None alive.

Geralt drops his fighting stance, wipes the viscera from his sword, and resheathes it. He then groans to himself as he gazes out again at the carnage surrounding him.

The one positive (if one could call it that) about being the only witcher stranded in a flooded town is that the seemingly endless number of drowner contracts have gone straight to him. And so, here he is: _Geralt of Rivia, Defender of Rodromir, Slayer of a Thousand Drowners;_ consigned to wait out a flood knee-deep in putrid, stagnant water that is quickly becoming more necrophage entrails than water. Such is life.

At least Jaskier and their daughter are safe back at the inn. Geralt can be glad for that. Both of them had practically begged to come along with him, but he stood firm in his objection. He wasn’t interested in having to keep track of them _and_ his wandering mind concurrently, especially if he was unfortunate enough to encounter a water hag on this excursion.

The stench of decaying fish offends Geralt’s nose as he kicks half of the most recently downed corpse aside and sets about looking for bodies amongst the bunch with heads still intact.

Now, with no danger immediately present, he allows his mind to wander.

It’s been small things that set him on this trail of thought lately.

This morning, it was when he went to negotiate the contract back in town. As he was leaving the ealderman’s home, he saw one of the man’s children—by appearances no older than his own daughter—sitting near the doorway drawing a picture. Geralt couldn’t help but peek at it.

It was a drawing of several human-like stick figures (presumably a family) holding hands and standing off to the side of a home. There were flowers lining the walkway to the home, birds in the sky, and a bright, smiling sun centered on the page. Standard fare for children of that age. Charming. Pleasant.

His daughter’s drawings are…

...not like that.

Leora draws dragons and werewolves and ghouls and _gore_. She draws scenes from the heroic tales Jaskier spins for her but also scenes from their travels: Geralt chopping a wyvern’s head off, the family standing next to a pile of dead nekkers, Leora holding hands with godling. In his pack, Geralt carries with him a drawing she recently made of a surprisingly accurate alghoul eating a deer. Not even five years old, and the girl knows exactly how many spines an alghoul has on its back. 

Is that...normal?

Is _she_ normal?

He supposes Leora _seems_ well-adjusted enough for a child of four-almost-five. Sure, she’s impetuous and oftentimes difficult to control, but that’s expected for her age. Isn’t it _?_ He thinks so, but then again what does he know about children? He knows more about the behavior of arachas young than he does human children. 

(Well, mostly human, in Leora’s case.)

Geralt’s own childhood—at least what he can remember of it—was less of a childhood and more of a brutal, unrelenting struggle for survival. It consisted of strenuous physical training and painful mutations meant to mold him into a living weapon, and he suffered it mostly alone. There were other boys at Kaer Morhen, but he quickly learned that it was unwise to make good friends with any of them. The next trial could very well be their last, and he didn’t have any energy to spare on grief.

At the _very_ least, Geralt knows his daughter’s childhood is shaking out to be more normal than his own was. But it’s only a small comfort. Witcher “childhoods” are probably not the best standard by which to judge happy, healthy upbringings.

Does Leora even have friends? She’s certainly a friend- _ly_ child, perhaps to a fault at times, and she speaks of playing with “friends” in the places they stay in their travels. But has his daughter ever had a true friend for longer than the week or so they spend in any one place before moving on again? He thinks so? He _hopes_ so.

Geralt knives off a drowner’s tongue, allowing the rest of the corpse to fall back down to the shallow water. He tosses the slimy appendage into a small bag with the others.

Then, a small smile creeps over his face.

Leora likes this part. It’s strange, but she actually _likes_ the foraging and butchering of corpses in the post-battle calm. Provided the risk potential is low, Geralt doesn’t mind including her, either. It’s a chance to teach her firsthand about kill efficiency and monster anatomy, and she’s a keen student. 

Geralt’s smile widens.

He remembers the first time he walked Leora through the steps of removing a drowner tongue. Geralt held the beast up by its tongue, his other fist wrapped around his daughter’s little hand as he carefully guided her through cutting off the tongue cleanly. Her bright, blue eyes were wide with wonder as he explained why it’s so important to cut at the base, where the slime glands are.

She is _so smart_. Always so fascinated with the mechanics of everything around her, and she even takes a special interest in the most technical aspects of his work. She’s not even five, but she already knows what parts are most valuable from the most common monsters (and some uncommon ones, too), which parts are ingredients for which potions, what purposes the potions serve, and—

Geralt’s smile disappears. 

This can’t be normal.

Normal children don’t know this much about monsters and potions, and they certainly don’t _enjoy_ gutting monster corpses. 

What’s more, normal children draw pictures of homes and families, not beasts. Normal children have friends. Normal children—

Geralt frowns and shakes his head, trying to will away this unpleasant trail of thought. He knots the bag of tongues to his belt and begins trudging through the water to the next site where drowners were reportedly seen. There isn’t any time to bother himself with such concerns. He needs to focus on the task at hand. Do his job, collect his coin, and then return home to his family.

_‘Return home?’_ his mind unhelpfully supplies. What home? He won’t be returning _home_ , he’ll be returning to _an inn_. Just one of countless stale, lifeless collections of walls they seek shelter in before traveling to the next precarious, temporary abode.

This, also, isn’t normal. 

Normal children have homes: places where they keep their things and beds they lay in night after night. A normal child also shouldn’t have to ask to sleep with her parents, traumatized because a common wraith her father was contracted to kill turned out to be a demon.

Leora is so constantly exposed to danger because of Geralt’s job, and it’s this job that almost necessitates that she learn about monsters instead of...whatever it is four-year-olds are supposed to be learning about (he isn’t quite sure about what she should be learning at her age, but he knows it doesn’t involve demons, for fuck’s sake).

Geralt spots a pack of drowners circling a drowned corpse ahead. The beasts haven’t taken notice of him yet, so he stops walking to take a deep breath and regain his composure before initiating the fight.

Alright, so he needs to get to the bottom of this business about very likely ruining his daughter’s childhood, but he’ll have to come back to it once the job is taken care of.

Geralt draws his silver sword, and several hideous, oozing faces turn in his direction.

* * *

There’s still a bit of sunlight left in the day when Geralt returns to the town proper. And although the storm has long passed, he feels as if a dark cloud of self-doubt and looming danger follows him on his walk to collect his coin before heading back to the inn. 

His sour mood persists until he approaches the inn and is immediately greeted by the sight of the focus of his worries kneeling uncaringly in a pit of mud outside the door.

Leora is fully engrossed in a task of packing handfuls of mud onto a larger pile of mud, the whole thing held up precariously with twigs. She briefly leans up from her project to push her hair out of her face with a mud-caked hand. Her hair is more brown than white at this point. 

Geralt groans. That’ll be a nightmare to wash out later.

Before directing her attention back to the sagging structure in front of her, Leora catches a glimpse of Geralt approaching. Her face brightens instantly, and her mouth opens wide to let out a happy little squeal.

_“Papaaa!”_ she shrieks as she scrambles upright and clenches her hands up at him insistently.

Geralt is covered in sludge and guts and really would rather not pick his daughter up in his state, but from the looks of it, she’s probably just as filthy as he is. He obligingly draws her up into his arms, and her muddy hands grab at his medallion.

“Did you kill a lot of monsters?” she asks while fiddling with the medallion absentmindedly.

The extent to which the girl is Jaskier’s mirror image is always so fascinating to Geralt. She’s got the same round eyes, long lashes, upturned nose, full cheeks...really, the only thing amiss is the color of her hair. The resemblance is even more pronounced now that she’s making the same excited face Jaskier makes when asking Geralt for details about his hunts. And just like Jaskier does, Leora looks at Geralt with a trusting gleam in her eye as if Geralt _isn’t_ a large, terrifying witcher covered in monster entrails.

“Mm-hmm,” Geralt answers. “Drowners.”

Leora gasps as she takes note of a scratch above Geralt’s eyebrow.

“Oh no. Papa, they hurt you,” she says sadly.

The scratch is surface-level and nearly healed over by now, but the girl plants a kiss on the wound with a loud _mwah_.

“All better?” she asks.

Geralt huffs a laugh. “All better.”

Leora squirms in his arms, signaling she wants to be let down. Always onto the next, this one. 

Geralt puts her down, and she plants her knees right back into the mud and points at the thing she’s working on.

“Look!” she exclaims proudly. “I made a house for them so they don't get stuck in the water!”

Upon closer examination, Geralt realizes that the mound of mud contains a hole filled with slugs. One tries to sneak out, but Leora picks it up and places it back in the hole with the others.

Geralt hums as he regards the frankly grotesque scene, thinking about the substances other than mud that are currently drying in his child’s hair.

The task of washing it all out falls to him that evening, and it does take longer than usual. Leora won’t keep her head back while Geralt is washing the dried muck from her hair (she’s too focused on splashing two bottles around in the bathwater while pretending they're mermaids), but he patiently scrubs, combs, and rinses until it’s finally soft and white again.

He dries her hair with a cloth after her bath, jostling her head about on purpose just to make her giggle. Then, Geralt braids it back away from her face while it’s still a bit damp. He likes the way this makes her hair look once the braid comes out. Brings out her waves.

They spend the rest of the evening together in their room, just the two of them. Jaskier plays for the inn patrons in the meantime; he said something about needing to play or else the inkeep would reveal his identity to everyone, which didn’t make any sense. In any case, Geralt didn’t ask questions and told Jaskier just to stay out of trouble.

Geralt is glad for the time he gets to spend alone with his daughter, even if he spends a lot of it hunting for symptoms of her apparently broken childhood.

Her rhotacism is still there. A couple of years ago, Jaskier told Geralt that she couldn’t say her _r’s_ correctly because she was still a baby. Now he says it’s because she’s bilingual. However, none of the _r_ sounds in Common or Elder sound like _w’s_ , so Geralt’s starting to doubt it’s as innocuous as Jaskier suggests.

While Leora works through her daily writing exercises, Geralt takes note of how she holds her pencil in her fist like one holds a chisel, how she writes a few letters backwards, and how she writes mostly in upper case. These are all things Jaskier says are common at her age, just correct it when it happens and it’ll pass, and she excels regardless (also, _‘How many four year olds you know are writing in full sentences, Geralt? Hm? Exactly.’)._

Geralt doesn’t know any other four-year-olds, and he’s not the one who graduated summa cum laude with a Master of the Seven Liberal Arts from Oxenfurt, so he doesn’t argue. He just worries in silence instead.

Writing done, they move on to combat training—a subject Geralt is much more comfortable leading (it’s also one element of witcher education he has no qualms about passing forth; it’s important that his daughter knows how to protect herself). Well, it really is just roughhousing, but Geralt sneaks a fair bit of combat training in there. They play keep-away, he has her strike his hands to test her aim and form, and he tickles her while teaching her strategies to break free from physical restraints.

She is strong. Reaction time is good. Aim is getting more precise. Still needs constant correcting when it comes to form, though. He makes a note to focus on that going forward.

Leora is good and tired at the end of it all, and by the time Jaskier returns to their room, she’s drowsy enough for bedtime stories. She lies down and asks to hear the one about the ‘warrior going home but he gets lost and then there’s the big monster with only one eye.’ Jaskier obliges, and Leora settles her head atop one of his arms as he recounts the tale. Geralt lays on Leora’s other side once he’s done cleaning his armor, listening passively to the story as he rests his eyes for a moment.

Jaskier’s really good at this. _Too_ good at it; he sets the bar impossibly high. Luckily, Geralt doesn’t have to stumble his way through their daughter’s bedtime stories on any sort of regular basis.

Leora falls asleep during the first act of the story with her face smashed up against Jaskier’s chest and a leg hooked securely around one of Geralt’s forearms. Content. Safe.

Geralt then listens silently, unfocused as Jaskier talks to him about his day in detail. He’s got one hand on Jaskier’s slim hip, thumb rubbing slow circles against the linen of his nightshirt. Just feeling. No aim, no pretext. Geralt just likes the way Jaskier’s body feels in his hands. It’s soft; grounding. A distraction from his anxieties.

The talking stops.

Jaskier ever so subtly bites the inside of his lip, and his gaze flashes between Geralt’s eyes and mouth.

By now, Geralt knows exactly what that look means.

He’d love to kiss Jaskier, but he’s also wary of the potential consequences of doing so. Wary of the consequences, and aware of their limitations at the moment. 

They’ve been on the road for a while, then separated for a time, then Leora’s recent bout of sleeplessness ensued, and now they’re pressed for time on the road once again. It’s all culminated in over a month without any being to share any ‘quality time’ together, and Geralt knows it’s slowly driving Jaskier insane.

And judging by the darkness in Jaskier’s eyes as he gazes over, a kiss at this particular moment may have more of a tantalizing effect than a satiating one.

Still, Geralt kisses him. He leans forward carefully so as not to disturb their daughter, moves his free hand to Jaskier’s chin, and touches their lips together softly. 

Predictably, Jaskier escalates things almost immediately. Geralt feels blunt fingernails scrape against his scalp, then he feels his head being tugged in by his hair as Jaskier introduces a fair amount of tongue and drives the kiss deeper. 

Against his better judgement, Geralt follows Jaskier’s lead.

The kiss only intensifies until it’s pulling little desperate moans and grunts out of them both, wet and passionate and _erotic_ in a way they haven’t been able to experience for so long.

It causes a soothing warmth to pool in the pit of Geralt’s belly, but the key to a witcher’s stamina is his control, so he knows he’s in no danger of reaching his personal point of no return. Jaskier, however, is a different case entirely.

The honeyed scent of the man’s arousal grows more and more pronounced until it’s all Geralt can smell. He’s wound tight under Geralt’s hand, like a dam about to break.

Jaskier finally pulls back for air, panting softly and pupils blown wide. He starts in a breathless, desperate whisper, “Geralt, do you think, if we moved over—”

“No.”

“We can be careful—”

“ _No_. Unless you want to wake her up and have to put her to sleep all over again.”

Jaskier whines softly, and his brow furrows as he apparently tries to think up a counterargument. 

Geralt waits. Jaskier has nothing. Because there is nothing. There is only one bed, their very light-sleeping child is asleep on top of them, and that’s that.

Jaskier pouts. 

“Don’t,” Geralt admonishes quietly. “ _You_ asked for one bed."

Jaskier whispers indignantly, “I had no choice; she won’t sleep alone!”

“If there were two beds, we could have put her to sleep in one and moved to the other one.”

A silent moment of reflection passes after which Jaskier groans lightly and untangles his hand from Geralt’s hair to smack it onto his own forehead. “ _Whyyy_ on the gods’ earth did I ask for one bed?”

Geralt replies good-naturedly, “You’re an idiot.”

“You know,” starts Jaskier with a frown. “Normally I would defend myself against such a discourteous remark...but I have to agree with you in this case.”

Geralt smiles and moves back into his own space, disengaging entirely and giving Jaskier room to cool down.

After some more idle chatter, Jaskier falls asleep first. He typically does. Unless Geralt is badly wounded or recovering from a particularly strong potion, he can’t bring himself to drift off into sleep before knowing his partner is resting comfortably.

So Geralt lies awake in bed for a time, just watching Jaskier and their daughter as they sleep.

He takes Leora’s braided hair in his fingers, and he runs his thumb across the tuft of hair at the end.

It’s still hard to believe that she’ll be five in less than a week. A full-blown _child_ , so far removed from her infancy and toddler years. It’s like her innocence is fading by the day.

What happens when it’s all gone? When she stops seeing the world as a fun, exciting place and sees it for what it is: cruel to people like her?

It’s bound to happen sooner rather than later.

Given her parentage, appearance (children generally don’t have white hair), and physical capabilities far beyond what a young child should be capable of, Leora is...well, different. Strange, some might even say. 

People don’t like strange. People like things that are easy to explain; to classify. They tend to despise and fear everything else.

Geralt knows all too well what that particular type of rejection feels like, and the thought that his daughter will likely experience it as well hurts more than any physical pain he’s ever felt. 

Yes, she’s different. And yes, she will probably live her life being misunderstood by most people she comes across. But isn’t this unorthodox, nomadic life he’s inflicting upon her just adding to her troubles unnecessarily? Isn’t it just _guaranteeing_ that she’ll grow up to live a life of vagrancy and ostracization?

Isn’t every day she spends being dragged along a witcher’s path instead of enjoying the security and stability of a home ruining any chances she has for a normal future?

Geralt lets go of Leora’s hair and clutches his hand into a fist so tightly that his fingernails dig into his palm.

He refuses to be the reason his daughter grows up to be an outcast. He promised her on the day she was born that he would always do right by her, and he intends to keep that promise. 

Things must change. They _will_ change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing dad Geralt >>>>>


	4. Bound by Choice

Ciri needed training, and she needed to train somewhere safe. Winter was nigh, so the obvious solution was that Geralt should take Ciri to Kaer Morhen. 

The unfortunate part about going to Kaer Morhen for the winter was that it meant _staying_ at Kaer Morhen for the winter. Snowstorms in the Blue Mountains were unforgiving, and the pass leading to the castle snowed over for months at a time every year.

Taking Ciri to Kaer Morhen meant spending months at Kaer Morhen, away from everything else.

Away from Jaskier.

So much had changed between them since their night together in the dwarves’ camp. They looked at each other differently, touched each other more often, and there was a lot of sex involved now (Geralt always knew Jaskier was insatiable, but to be on the receiving end of it was something else entirely). However, the most exciting aspects of their new relationship for Geralt were the simple things: sharing more space than ever before with Jaskier, having a pass to kiss him whenever he wanted, having Jaskier be the last person he saw before falling asleep and the first person he saw waking up...

He liked not having to wonder anymore. He had spent decades operating under the assumption that Jaskier wasn’t interested in anything more since he never made any explicit advances (Jaskier was plenty of things, but ambiguous about who he wanted wasn’t one of them). Now, they could just interact authentically; start making up for decades of lost time.

It was exhilarating.

But it was also so new; so fragile.

They hadn’t even put a name to what they were doing or what they felt, and Geralt feared it was too soon to ask Jaskier to spend months in a snowed-in keep with several other witchers and his ward. Jaskier wasn’t in the habit of staying in any one place for long—let alone a whole winter at Kaer Morhen—and asking that of him felt awfully like trying to confine him. 

Geralt never invited him to Kaer Morhen in the end. They said their goodbyes and went their separate ways for the winter, and Geralt assumed it would be fine. They’d parted so many times before, hadn’t they?

So. Why the _fuck_ did it feel like his heart had been ripped from his chest? Why did he miss Jaskier to the point of distraction? Had he ever missed Jaskier this much before? Had he ever missed _anyone_ this much before?

Knowing it would do him no good to dwell on it, Geralt focused on Ciri’s training. She needed the attention, and he needed something— _anything_ —else to think about.

One morning, Ciri sat cross-legged on the floor in Kaer Morhen’s armory, idly cleaning the hilt of a sword with a rag when she said seemingly out of nowhere,

“I miss Jaskier.”

Geralt’s back was to her, so he shut his eyes for a moment and groaned quietly. He didn't need this. Pretending not to hear, he continued inspecting weapons and armor in the room for signs of wear. He unmounted a shield from the wall, turned it this way and that to appraise its condition, and walked it over to Ciri.

“This one, too,” he said as he laid it in the small pile by her side. “Iron needs polishing.”

Ciri sighed, shoulders falling with it.

Geralt said, “This is important. A weapon is—”

“—only as good as its maintenance,” Ciri interjected wearily. “I _know_ _,_ it’s just boring.” 

Amused, Geralt crossed his arms across his chest. “Were you expecting weapons maintenance to be entertaining?”

“No,” Ciri grumbled as she set the sword to the side and picked up the dull shield, “but if Jaskier were here, we’d have music, at least.”

Ciri was right, and Geralt felt for her, but he did not want to talk about Jaskier. The man was on Geralt’s mind too much as was, and it was going to be a long winter in the keep without his company. Especially since the ‘nature’ of his company had expanded to include, well…

...a lot of new things.

Things that would have made the cold nights much warmer.

No. Geralt _really_ did not want to talk about Jaskier. He didn’t want to think about him either, but he could at least control whether or not he talked about the man. 

But apparently, he couldn’t control Ciri’s level of interest in the topic.

“Why didn’t Jaskier come?” she asked.

Again, Geralt pretended not to hear. He turned his back to Ciri and began looking for more items for her to clean.

“I know you heard me,” Ciri said, irritated. “You hear everything.”

Geralt turned around and sighed in resignation. “What?”

“Why didn’t Jaskier come?”

“I don’t know. Jaskier walks his own path, and I walk mine,” Geralt responded flatly.

“But I thought you were…” Ciri paused, clearly looking for the right words.

Together. Ciri thought he and Jaskier were together, in some official capacity. Geralt cursed himself for being so careless around the girl, for letting too much show. Of course she was confused now. He and Jaskier should have been more careful, they should have talked to her about what they were doing, they—

“...I thought you were in love,” finished Ciri, somewhat sadly.

Geralt’s throat caught in a knot, and he felt his face flush.

His mind faltered. All he could think to do was brusquely tell Ciri to complete her task, and he left the room. Ciri, the wise and perceptive girl that she was, didn’t bring the topic up again all winter.

But the damage had already been done.

_Love._

There it was.

That word Geralt had felt hovering over his interactions and conversations with Jaskier for months now. Neither of them had broached the topic, and Geralt didn’t dare to even _think_ about the word lest it threaten to settle on solid ground. Make itself present; real. 

But now that Ciri yanked it down and thrust it right into Geralt’s face, he had to confront it. 

Was he in love with Jaskier?

Putting aside that Geralt didn’t know what ‘love’ even meant to him in practice, just the fact that this was a possibility was downright bizarre. If someone had told him 20 years ago that he’d one day lie awake in bed wondering if he was _in love_ with the loud, gaudy, noble-turned-bard he met in Posada, he’d have pointed them to the nearest lunatic asylum. 

Over the years, Geralt learned that Jaskier was much more he appeared to be at first: namely, he was terrifyingly loyal, much wiser than he let on, actually quite resourceful when the need came, funny although Geralt would never admit it...

And Geralt had certainly learned much, _much_ more as of recent (who knew that one day he would know where all of Jaskier’s moles were?).

He could trace the line from Jaskier being a pest, to being tolerable, to amusing, to important, to now someone whose presence Geralt apparently needed like water. But he didn’t know where— _or if_ —love had entered the picture.

He did know one thing for sure.

It was going to be a long winter.

* * *

Spring came, the snow on the pass thawed, and Ciri and Geralt bid Kaer Morhen and its inhabitants a fond farewell.

Fond was putting it lightly for Geralt; he would have even portaled away from the castle if given the option. He settled for moving them along at a breakneck speed, aided by the reminder that every step brought him closer to Jaskier.

They met up with their third companion again outside Ard Carraigh, and surprisingly, Ciri spotted him before Geralt did.

She left Geralt’s side without a word, and Geralt reached out to stop her before realizing what had caught her attention. 

Jaskier stood just ahead, dressed conspicuously in green, beaming with his arms stretched wide towards Ciri. She threw herself into his arms, and he picked her up and spun her around. Putting her back down, he brushed his hands over her hair and excitedly made a comment about how long it was getting.

Geralt watched on with a throbbing in his chest and knot in his throat, legs moving almost on their own accord towards the two.

Then, Jaskier looked up and locked eyes with Geralt.

Jaskier’s wide smile dwindled a bit but didn’t dim. He bit his lip, and his eyes (bluer and clearer than Geralt remembered) flicked down quickly to Geralt’s lips.

Geralt suddenly couldn’t hear much of anything over the echoing of his own heartbeat in his ears.

Ciri seemed to notice the tension, stood aside, and looked between them expectantly.

“Hi, Geralt,” started Jaskier with uncharacteristic shyness. “You’re looking well. And...large.”

At that, Geralt rolled his eyes and just drew Jaskier in for an embrace.

It almost didn’t feel real to have Jaskier in his arms like this again. This here, this feeling of safety and home and of all being right with the world was what he had been yearning for for months. He nuzzled his cheek against Jaskier’s hair, allowing himself to sink into this ridiculous, wonderful man’s all-encompassing warmth for a moment and forget everything else.

Then, he felt one of Jaskier’s hands slip down and cup his ass.

Geralt flinched backward and glanced at Ciri to make sure she hadn’t seen. Then, he cast an angry look back at Jaskier.

Jaskier shot him a wink in response, and there they were, right back where they left off. Nary a missed beat.

They fell easily back into their old routine. Ciri learned and grew with each passing day, Geralt kept them on their path, and Jaskier created (sometimes welcome) diversions.

There were differences, however. The most immediately noticeable difference was that Jaskier was more open about touching Geralt than he was before their winter apart. Before, it had been casual little touches here and there, on Geralt’s arm or his back. Jaskier now got in the habit of hooking his arm through Geralt’s as they walked, weaving their fingers together, or swinging Geralt’s arm over his shoulder and tossing his own arm around Geralt’s waist.

Once, completely unexpectedly, Jaskier pressed his lips to Geralt’s in the middle of a crowded market. It happened so quickly that Geralt barely registered it, but it still froze him in his tracks. It was so ostentatious; unapologetic. So unconcerned with the opinions of anyone around them. In fact, the way Jaskier smiled to himself after the kiss indicated that he (as usual) was glad to have an audience.

It was the first time anyone had made a show of Geralt that way.

He...didn’t know how he felt about it. 

On one hand, he hated being the center of attention. Witchers were meant to stay in the background, off the main roads, away from anyone’s line of sight until they were needed. Geralt knew he belonged in the shadows and was most comfortable there.

On the other hand, Jaskier had been pulling him into the public eye for decades now. The bard had been singing Geralt’s praises since the day they met, as if a witcher could be some sort of hero.

And now, Jaskier was kissing him in front of others as if he was...someone to be proud of.

In any case, Geralt decided he wouldn’t stop Jaskier if he kissed him in public again.

But it didn’t happen again because like all good things in Geralt's life, this time with Jaskier didn’t last long.

Just months after being reunited, Nilfgaard had gotten too hot on their trail. After a few too-close calls, Geralt knew he had to take Ciri into hiding. It wasn’t safe for Jaskier to go along. They had to spit up. Again.

On the last night they spent together before parting ways, Geralt found himself in bed with Jaskier. They laid skin against skin, Geralt caging Jaskier in with his arms and Jaskier’s hands clasped behind Geralt’s neck. They were both flushed and ready, but Geralt paused and held himself there for a moment just to enjoy the beauty beneath him.

He marveled at the soft blue of Jaskier’s heavy-lidded eyes in the dark, the glow of the moonlight reflecting from his tousled hair, his perfect lips parted in invitation.

It was a view Geralt had already committed to memory, but it still had the power to leave him spellbound. He suddenly found himself without the desire to do anything but give words and life to what he knew he felt but had feared up until that moment.

So the truth spilled forth from his lips.

“I love you.”

Jaskier’s body went stiff as he let out a small gasp. His eyes widened, and he asked, “You _what?”_

“I…” Geralt started to repeat himself, but he trailed off. Fuck.

_Fuck._

Geralt didn’t know what reaction he expected—or if he was even thinking that far ahead—but it wasn’t this. From what he could see in the dark, Jaskier looked fearful, _appalled_ _._ He went from feeling loose and pliant under Geralt to now being completely tense.

This was a mistake. He shouldn’t have said anything at all.

“Am I dreaming?” asked Jaskier, his voice tight. “Have I just died and gone to the next world, or did you just say that you _love_ me?”

Geralt felt small. Vulnerable. Like he was standing atop the gallows, rope around his neck. 

“Yes,” he said hoarsely. He saw no other way out.

“And you’re not drunk? No potions or…”

Now, Geralt wished a pit would open up in the earth and swallow him whole. He didn’t care where it took him, he just had no interest in being in this _realm_ anymore, let alone this room.

Dejectedly, he moved to climb off of Jaskier’s body, but Jaskier hooked his legs tightly behind his thighs.

“Sorry, sor- _ry!”_ exclaimed Jaskier as he held him there like a vice. “Stop that; come here. I’m sorry. Gods, leave it to me to take the most romantic thing you’ve ever done and ruin it.”

Geralt stayed where Jaskier held him, but he couldn’t bear to look at his face anymore.

Jaskier laid his hands gently on Geralt’s cheeks, guiding him to resume eye contact. Geralt begrudgingly compiled and gazed down at Jaskier’s earnest expression.

“Let’s try this again,” Jaskier continued. “Pretend that you just said what you said, and I didn’t nearly die on the spot. Alright? So what I would say....what I _should_ have said...was ‘I love you, too.’ Because I do love you, Geralt. I always have.”

Geralt felt like he was floating, or falling, or _something_ he couldn’t even begin to describe. 

Feeling like a flame just went alight beneath him, he blurted, “Then stay with me.”

“Hm?”

“After this is all over, and we come out of hiding, I want you to stay. I don’t want to be apart from you again. I want you to come to Kaer Morhen next winter...”

Geralt realized he was rambling a bit and sheepishly added, “...if. If you want.”

_"If I want_ _,"_ Jaskier snarked. “Of course I _want._ I would go anywhere with you. You know that, don’t you?”

Did he know that?

Well, when the question was posed that plainly, Geralt realized that he did. Of course he knew that. It was always foolish to pretend he didn’t.

Geralt leaned down and captured Jaskier’s lips in a kiss. It was something he had done countless times by this point, but there was something different about it now. 

And when they made love that night, even as their bodies were joined together as closely as they could physically be, Geralt felt a strange desire to be even closer. He was already inside of Jaskier, but he inexplicably and irrationally wanted to _live_ there, to become _one_ with Jaskier.

Geralt already knew what it was like to be bound to others by destiny, by djinn, by struggle, but to be bound to another...by choice? Oh, this was completely new.

He had actually chosen so few things in his life, and he was used to being everyone’s worst case scenario: a service people reluctantly solicited when left with no other option.

Now, he wanted someone, and that person wanted him back. 

Geralt felt something powerful blossom from their shared desire that night—something he never believed he could have with another person.

He knew now.

Even if their paths were pulling apart again, Geralt knew they were intertwined for the rest of their lives, and they would always find each other. Not because of fate or destiny or some other external mechanism, but because they chose to never let each other go.


	5. Good Fortune: Jaskier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~Smut alert~

It takes four days for the waters surrounding Rodromir to abate.

On the morning of that fourth day, Jaskier sits across from Leo at a dining table, watching on as she picks disinterestedly at her breakfast. She looks a bit bored, the poor thing, but Jaskier is thankful that she won’t be for much longer. They’ll be leaving this godsforsaken place first thing in the morning to ensure a full day to travel, and then they’ll finish their business at Lettenhove and return back to their normal lives.

For now, Jaskier sits and thinks up ways to keep Leo occupied in Rodromir for one more day. Whatever it is they do, they’ll need to keep from disturbing Geralt, who is still asleep back in their room. His brave, strong, beautiful, probably _exhauste_ _d_ witcher had gotten in after sunrise, so Jaskier didn’t wake him for breakfast. Rest is the least he deserves in thanks for single-handedly keeping the city perimeter clear of necrophage colonies for days on end.

Jaskier occasionally takes note of the inn’s front door swinging open with the natural movement of patrons coming and going. There’s even light shining through the windows now, and all around, there seems to be a new sense of life and _normalcy_ to the place. Jaskier surely can’t wait to leave, but he has a sneaking feeling that this last day in Rodromir will be a good one.

One serendipitous moment, he happens to glance up towards the door as it opens to reveal what must be a mirage. Like a dying man in the desert coming upon a lush oasis, he doubts his eyes for a moment and does a double-take.

Is... Is that…?

“Triss Merigold the Fearless!” Jaskier exclaims as he springs to his feet.

Triss, after looking around in confusion for a moment, catches sight of the bard excitedly approaching and smiles brightly. “Jaskier? What in heaven’s name—”

Jaskier rushes over and pulls her into an enthusiastic embrace. He’s really always adored Triss. She’s gentle and warm with a giving heart that knows no bounds—essentially the polar opposite of every other sorceress he’s had the... _displeasure_ of knowing.

“Triss Merigold, ray of sunshine parting the clouds; rainbow succeeding the tempest!” Jaskier exclaims as he holds her hands and kisses both of her cheeks in succession. “You’ve no idea how good it is to see you. What on _earth_ are you doing here?”

“It’s so good to see _you_ ,” Triss answers through a smile. “How are you? And the baby? It’s been years since I’ve—” she stops, having caught sight of the little face peering at her behind Jaskier’s legs.

“Heavens, look at her,” Triss gasps out, “She’s grown so much!”

It’s protocol to comment on friends’ children’s growth when you haven’t seen them for a time, but Jaskier knows people really mean it when they’re talking about Leo. She’s easily the height of children one, sometimes two years older than her.

Laying a hand proudly atop the girl’s head, Jaskier looks down at Leo and says, “This is your Auntie Triss, darling. She’s known you since you were in Daddy’s belly.”

“The sorceress from the story?” is the girl’s soft reply.

“Yes, exactly.” Jaskier looks up at Triss; whispers, “ _She likes the one about Sodden Hill_.” Back down to Leo, “Well. What do you say?”

Leo says nothing and instead gives Triss a slow, judging look up and down before walking forward and hugging Triss around her thighs as if she was just any familiar old friend. And she is, really, even if Leo was too young to remember the last she saw her.

The sight of the two embracing warms Jaskier’s heart. Geralt says Leo trusts too quickly, but Jaskier knows this is nonsense. She trusts the _right_ people quickly because she’s a fantastic judge of character; always has been. Leo is innately perceptive, and Triss is innately good. Therefore, it’s no surprise that Leo takes to Triss immediately.

Leo even opts to sit plastered next to Triss’s side when they all sit down together for a meal. As they eat, Jaskier recounts why they’re en route to Lettenhove, Triss fills in Jaskier on several bits of court gossip, and they briefly discuss whether or not Leo has displayed any magical proficiency yet (she hasn’t, not at all. Jaskier figures this is probably for the better. He’s surrounded by enough magic as it is without having a magical child to tend to as well).

After a short chat, Triss reluctantly announces, “Well, this was lovely, but I’ve got to brew some vitriol before I leave town; I’m all out. There’s a patch of flowers I need just south of here—”

Leo blurts out, “Hellebore?”

Triss looks down at the girl, impressed. “ _Very_ good. That’s exactly right.”

Jaskier feels a welling of pride in him. Leo has a fantastic memory, and it’s nearly perfect when it comes to alchemy. 

“I Papa pick hellebore,” Leo continues. Then, her eyes widen and she gasps as if something’s possessed her. She clasps his hands around Triss’s arm and enthusiastically asks, “Ooh, can I go, can I go? I can help you!”

Triss glances uncomfortably at Jaskier and replies, “Well...”

In a precociously dramatic display, Leo then takes Triss’s hand and clutches it to her little chest. “Please?”

It’s then that Jaskier knows he needs to rescue poor, unsuspecting Triss from his daughter’s manipulations.

“Leo, leave Auntie Triss alone. I’m sure she’s very busy.”

After briefly turning to regard her father, Leo strategically continues to direct her tactics at Triss. They're clearly working more there.

“Please?” she begs, eyes wide and glassy. “Papa says I’m a good helper.”

Triss replies with a regretful smile, “Oh, I’m sure. And it would be lovely to have such _expert_ help, but it isn’t up to me, dear. You have to get your father’s permission.”

At that, Leo releases her captive and leans excitedly over the table, sending her bowl and silverware nearly careening of the table. She clasps her hands exaggeratedly in front of her face. 

“Daddy, _please_?”

Jaskier sighs. “Begging is so unbecoming, darling. I wish you wouldn’t do it.”

Leo replies by sticking out her bottom lip.

Alright, so _of course_ Leo is the brightest and prettiest child on the continent. Clearly. But even the gods have their faults, and Jaskier knows that his daughter is something of a...well, a handful. She’s great fun, but not everyone is able to manage Leo at her zippiest. Especially now that it’s been days since she’s been able to leave this creaky old inn, who knows what sorts of energy she’ll need to unleash. Yes, it would do the girl good to stretch her legs, but leaving Triss to deal with all that pent up energy would be—

Hold on.

Hold _on_.

Oh.

Triss Merigold: treasure, _angel_ , goddess of good fortune! As if the light of her presence wasn’t enough, here she is bringing him the opportunity he’s been waiting for weeks as if brought down to him from the heavens themselves!

Jaskier tries to contain his newfound enthusiasm about this _glorious_ idea and says to Triss, “Ah, well, you know, I suppose if you wouldn’t mind, neither would I. I don’t imagine such an outing would take very long, after all?”

“Oh not long. Just an hour perhaps.”

An hour. He can work with that. Even so, Jaskier decides to press his luck and adds, “Well, I also would hate for you to rush, you know...if it needs to take longer, it _caaan_ , but...”

“It would just be a quick visit to the fields. Unless...” Triss looks down at Leo and says, “I could use some help with the brewing?” 

Leo nods maniacally. Her eyes start snapping back and forth between the two adults as she awaits her verdict, bouncing in her seat with anticipation.

Jaskier decides to finally put his daughter out of her misery. “Alright, you may go with—”

“Yay!” Leo cries. She throws her arms around Triss’s neck, who lets out an unsuspecting _oof_.

“— _but!_ ” Jaskier continues as if the girl is actually listening. “You won’t leave Auntie Triss’s sight for a second, and you must do everything she says. And you can’t go anywhere until you finish your food.”

Leo releases Triss and plants herself back in front of her meal with haste. To Jaskier’s horror, she then picks up a fistfull of pottage from her bowl and shoves the lot in her mouth.

* * *

Jaskier sees Leo off with a forehead kiss and a whispered _please, for the love of Melitele, be good_. He hopes desperately that the girl will heed the plea; it would be nice for all of their sakes if this “outings-with-Auntie-Triss” situation could turn into a regularly occurring arrangement.

Shifting focus, Jaskier nearly sprints back to the room where Geralt sleeps and excitedly swings the door open, causing it to slam violently against the wall behind it.

Geralt startles awake and bolts up to a seated position, eyes instinctually scanning the vicinity for threats. After taking note of Jaskier beaming in the doorway, he slumps against the headboard with an irritated groan.

Jaskier closes the door just as loudly as he opened it and says, “Oh good, you’re awake. Geralt, my love! You’ll never believe what just happened. I can hardly believe it, and it happened to me! Just when I was starting to think our fortune had run out with all this mess, the light of destiny shines kindly upon us once more!”

Geralt’s voice is rough with sleep, his scowl pointed. “What did you do?”

Jaskier _tsk_ s and shoots Geralt an offended look. The nerve. “I do good things from time to time, Geralt. And what I’ve _dooonnne_ …” he says as he smiles mischievously and begins slinking coquettishly over to the bed, “is manage to relieve us of childcare duties for until the afternoon.”

Geralt squints his tired eyes in question. His loose hair is clumped messily around his face, and the bedsheets are bunched up at his middle, leaving his well-formed pectorals fully on display. Gods, he looks delightful.

“It just so happens,” Jaskier says as moves to kneel on the bed next to Geralt, “that our good friend Triss Merigold is passing through town…”

Jaskier straddles Geralt’s lower half and sends his fingers exploring the fine hair on Geralt’s chest. “And she just happened to be going on a flower-picking errand...”

Jaskier traces his fingertips up to Geralt’s collarbone, taking note as Geralt’s heart rate quickens ever so slightly. “And Leo just happened to want to go along.”

“To where?” asks Geralt, looking suddenly much more awake.

“Just outside the village.” Anticipating an objection, Jaskier presses a finger to Geralt’s lips. “I’m sure by now you’ve killed half the drowners on the continent, and she’ll be with one of the most powerful sorceresses alive. She’ll be fine. It’s just potion things, that’s all. And it’ll take two hours. _Two_ hours, Geralt.”

Geralt doesn’t immediately reply.

A tension builds in the silence between them as Geralt regards Jaskier thoughtfully. For a moment, Jaskier thinks he doesn’t approve. Well, that would be all kinds of unfortunate and awkward, wouldn’t it? Well, honestly, it’d be utterly _devastating,_ but…

Jaskier’s worries pause as Geralt’s eyes cast a long, slow glance down the front of Jaskier’s body.

Oh?

Geralt then turns his head and bites at Jaskier’s finger against his lips.

_Oh._

Jaskier clutches his hand to his chest in mock outrage, expression cracking into an impish smile. “You _ruffian_.” 

Then, before he’s able to process any of what’s happening, Jaskier is being pushed back against the bed and eclipsed by a large, insistent figure. Geralt’s mouth latches onto the side of his neck, rough stubble contrasting with the softness of his tongue as he sucks at Jaskier’s skin. 

“Oh, hel- _lo_ there,” Jaskier coos as he feels longingly at the hulking arms caging him in, squeezing at the muscles as they tense under Geralt’s scarred skin.

Geralt’s voice rumbles low in his chest, and Jaskier can feel the vibration against his neck as he asks, “What do you want?”

Jaskier smiles behind a moan and wraps his legs around Geralt’s lower back. “Mm, what _don’t_ I want?”

Geralt replies with a displeased growl and nips at Jaskier’s neck. “Specifics. Tell me.”

And oh, and if heat wasn’t pooling in between Jaskier’s legs before it _certainly_ is now.

“Um…” he begins dumbly, “Well, I really, _really_ want to fuck you.” Jaskier drags his fingernails softly down Geralt’s taut flanks and dips his fingers underneath the waistband of his underclothes, rolling his hips eagerly against the warm, solid weight above him. “Although if I’m being honest, I don’t know how far we’d be able to get with that at the moment. If you catch my drift.”

“We can do that after,” Geralt replies, “What first?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jaskier breathes out as he leans up into a particularly hard suck to his jaw. “Erm. Your mouth? And maybe later...fuck me too? If we have time?”

Just the mention of their limited time together causes Jaskier to internally panic for a moment. He wedges his hands in between their bodies and moves to untuck his shirt from his trousers.

Geralt holds one of his wrists still. “No,” he rasps into Jaskier’s skin. “Let me.”

Alright. So Geralt wants to take it slow.

Jaskier is fine with that. He shouldn’t be, considering how long it’s been since they last made love, but it’s been even longer since they’ve been able to do it right. Since they’ve been able to drink each other in, explore one another’s bodies. Parenthood has changed so much between them, and most of it for the better. Leo is their world, perfection, an absolute _miracle_ , but healthy stretches of time spent completely alone are rare when traveling with a rambunctious, inquisitive little girl.

So now, Jaskier is more than happy to take it slow.

“Alright,” he says as he moves his hands away from his shirt and places them back onto Geralt’s back. “But if I finish in my trousers before you even get them off...”

“Go ahead,” Geralt answers as he shifts above to lean his weight on one elbow, freeing up a hand to finish untucking Jaskier’s undershirt from his trousers. “We have time.”

Jaskier wonders how Geralt can be so sure about this when everything feels so incredibly urgent at the moment. But he inhales deeply, decides to trust, and on exhale allows himself to sink lower into the bed below. Allows himself to just _feel_ as Geralt smoothes his hand under his untucked shirt, gently caressing the skin beneath. He slides his hand further up Jaskier’s body and tugs the shirt up as he goes, lips greeting the skin as it’s exposed along the way: a kiss to his ribs, collarbone, bicep, the inside of a wrist…

Shirt tossed aside, Jaskier then gazes past his own flushed, rising chest as his lover's lips peck slowly down his torso: low, lower, until he takes one of the laces of Jaskier’s trousers between his teeth. Amber eyes flash up seductively to meet Jaskier’s gaze. The look causes Jaskier’s hips to give an involuntary, primal jolt upwards, and Geralt holds his thighs down in an apparent order for Jaskier to be patient.

Patience. _Ugh_.

“Why do I put up with you?” says Jaskier with a roll of his eyes, there’s no bite in it.

With a lace still in his mouth, Geralt lifts his head, unravelling the tie without breaking eye contact.

“Right, fuck,” Jaskier breathes out, “That’s why.”

Geralt flashes a small, crooked smile and finishes getting the tie undone. He slides the trousers down and again plants soft kisses on Jaskier’s skin as it’s uncovered: a hipbone, the inside of a thigh, calf, ankle…

After discarding all of Jaskier’s garments onto the floor, Geralt sits back on his haunches and his gaze sweeps softly over the whole of Jaskier’s naked body. 

Jaskier used to feel self-conscious being on display like this. He had been so vain about his body before carrying their daughter, and the changes brought on by pregnancy and childbirth initially dealt a blow to his confidence. He now has a large, raised scar running vertically along his middle that slightly distorts the shape of his navel. Light pink stretch marks frame the scar on either side, and there is now a laxity to the skin on his lower abdomen that no amount of herbal remedies nor exercise can tighten. Learning to love this new body is still an ongoing process for Jaskier, but his lover’s near-constant (albeit mostly wordless) affirmations certainly help.

Geralt’s fingertips reverently trace their way down the length of the scar that brought their daughter into the world, then fan out to feel at the delicate web of smaller striations surrounding it.

_Thank you._

Jaskier lays a hand over Geralt’s softly to acknowledge the meaning behind the gesture.

_You’re welcome._

They share a knowing, loving smile, and Geralt turns his hand to weave their fingers together. Jaskier sighs contentedly and rubs his thumb along the rough skin at the side of Geralt’s hand.

“Geralt.”

“Hm.”

“I love you. I love you _s o_ _,_ so much, but I swear, if you don’t get on with—”

“Alright,” growls Geralt quietly as he shifts and leans down to plant his elbows on either side of Jaskier’s hips.

_YES_.

Jaskier’s cock is already leaking into the hair on his lower abdomen, and the sight of that perfect mouth hovering so closely above it sends a rush of blood down to his groin. Geralt starts off by licking a long, slow stripe up the underside of Jaskier’s cock, then takes it into his mouth once he reaches the tip.

Jaskier’s toes clench, a relieved moan punches its way out of him, and his eyes flutter shut. “ _Finally_ ,” he strains out.

Geralt’s chuckle vibrates around Jaskier’s length. His tongue begins rolling slowly— _blessedly slowly_ —around the head, and then he slides his lips down, down, taking the whole of Jaskier’s (not insubstantial) length down his throat.

Jaskier inhales sharply and leans up to really take in the view of his entire length disappearing into Geralt’s mouth. He commits the sight to memory.

“Sw—Geralt, you have no idea how good you look like this.”

Perhaps he does, the devil. Geralt probably knows exactly what power he wields over Jaskier. And in a display of said power, Geralt starts bobbing there at a steady pace, letting the sensitive head glide masterfully against the inside of his throat, nary a choke or gag.

_“Ohhh_ , yes. Yesyesyes, Geralt, _fuck_ _,_ ” Jaskier babbles as his head tips back onto the bed and he begins to writhe about. His heels dig and rub against the sheets below, and his hands clutch desperately at Geralt’s hair, his neck, his ears— _anything_ he can feel at to distract himself if only a little from the almost overwhelming heat and pressure building between his legs. 

“Geralt,” he forces out, “I’m not going— _mmph_ —oh, Geralt, I’m not going to last. I’m telling you right no— _oh fuck_.”

For dumb pride’s sake, Jaskier hopes it’s been a few minutes at least, but he honestly has no grasp of time at the moment. Either way, there’s no use in fighting the inevitable as he feels the telltale pressure build in his lower abdomen and the muscles in his legs begin to clench and spasm.

His orgasm swells and rips through him mercilessly, leaving him moaning behind clenched teeth as Geralt works him through the waves of release—massaging the shaft with his lips, Adam's apple bobbing in satisfaction as he swallows down every last drop.

The world around Jaskier comes slowly back into focus as he works to catch his breath. The second he has his bearings and not a moment later, he nudges Geralt down onto his back and happily returns the favor.

Oh, and he had _really_ missed this. Jaskier is relaxed enough to take his time with Geralt—enjoy the weight of the cock against his tongue, appreciate the little moans he pulls out of Geralt, relish in the blissed-out, slack-jawed look on his lover’s face as he receives. 

Jaskier brings Geralt to finish and sits up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“How are we on time?” he asks eagerly, “We’ve got time for more, haven’t we?”

Geralt takes Jaskier’s hips in his hands and looks up wryly. “Will you be _able_ to do more?”

“ _Will I be able to_ —,” Jaskier repeats mockingly before tapping Geralt on the thigh insistently. “Legs, witcher. Spread them.”

Jaskier’s fingers move with purpose to open Geralt up. And the _sight_ of his hand buried to the knuckles inside that sculpted body, the muscles in those thighs and abdomen undulating as Geralt grinds down against Jaskier’s fist... Jaskier can’t muster up the language appropriate to describe such a resplendent sight, so he laves simple praises upon Geralt: “That’s it, love,” “Good and open for me,” “Gods you’re beautiful,” “You’re so... _mnnnh_.”

Prep complete, Jaskier drags his fingers up Geralt’s sensitive inner thighs as he circles the head of his cock tauntingly against Geralt’s entrance. He watches Geralt’s face for any signs of discomfort as he begins the slow press forward. Geralt’s eyes squeeze shut and he bites his lower lip, moaning as Jaskier’s bottoms out.

“Geralt. Fuck,” Jaskier whines as he leans foward to place his hands on either side of Geralt’s shoulders. He nuzzles his face into the crook of Geralt’s neck for a moment and just barely rolls his hips, moaning at the heat and clench of the body around him.

Strong thighs then tighten around Jaskier’s back, a request for him to _move_.

Jaskier obliges. He changes his angle a bit with the next thrust in, then experiments with a few more looking for the right spot until he feels Geralt’s fingernails dig into his shoulderblades.

_There_ it is.

There, Jaskier finds a rhythm that has Geralt keening low in his chest. It all meshes together in filthily symphonic fashion: Geralt’s moans, Jaskier’s labored gasping, the lewd sound of their bodies clapping against one another’s, the bed creaking underneath them…

Jaskier braces himself and thrusts faster, _harder;_ fucking into Geralt the way he knows Geralt likes it: with an unforgiving pace and as much force as he can deliver. Geralt might actually be sore for a little while later on, even given his advanced healing. Jaskier’s head goes light at the thought.

Geralt’s back begins to arch, and he’s drawing faster and sharper breaths. He tenses, his arms and legs tighten around Jaskier’s body almost enough to bind him in place, and his breath stutters as he spills out against both of their stomachs and chests.

Jaskier’s head swims. It’s everything; too much, and yet _not enough_.

Jaskier whines insistently into Geralt’s shoulder, “Geralt, I...I’m...so…”

He’s _sooo_ close, nearly brought to the brink with Geralt’s muscles clenching rhythmically around his cock. He’s wound tight and his arms are trembling from anticipation and the effort of holding himself up, but he eases back, rolling his hips slowly to press Geralt’s orgasm out of him; careful not to overstimulate.

Geralt, having none of this, grabs two handfuls of Jaskier’s ass and growls, “Keep going.”

“O-Oh,” is Jaskier’s quiet, breathless reply. 

It’s all the permission he needs to rediscover his previous pace, and Geralt’s hands remain insistently on his ass lest he even think of slowing down. Jaskier’s rhythmic thrusts turn into desperate, shaky snaps of his hips as his orgasm builds, and builds. With a cry into the muscled shoulder below and one final violent thrust, Jaskier’s spilling deep inside of Geralt, this release shorter yet much more intense than his first.

He collapses on top of the clammy body below, laying there as he works to catch his breath.

“That was…”Jaskier takes a deep breath. “Geralt, fuck. How...How much...how much time do we have left?”

Geralt hums thoughtfully as he digs a hand into Jaskier’s sweat-dampened hair, presses his lips against his temple. “A little under an hour.”

“Oh. Good.”

“Do you have another one in you?”

“Um. I think I’ll be needing a bit of a break first, but yes. Absolutely yes.”

“Rest,” says Geralt with another press of his lips against Jaskier’s forehead.

Jaskier takes his break lying up against Geralt's side, fingers tracing idly down the cuts of his abdominal muscles. His fingers _accidentally_ end up at Geralt’s groin after some time, and he cheerfully whispers sweet nothings into Geralt’s ear as he brings him to orgasm with his hand. Occasionally, something he says punches a laugh out of Geralt, and Jaskier in turn. It pulls them out of mood briefly, but it’s good, short fun nonetheless.

Geralt is ready for another round shortly thereafter, and by now Jaskier is as well. He knows another round may kill him, but he supposes there are worse ways to die.

Geralt arranges Jasker atop his face, facing away. He takes his time opening Jaskier up on his tongue as his hands knead at his aching lower back. Jaskier relaxes there contentedly, hands on Geralt’s flexing quadriceps as he enjoys the uniquely wonderful feeling of Geralt’s tongue up his ass.

Geralt fucks Jaskier while he lays on his stomach with his hips propped up by a pile of pillows. His back is _really_ bothering him, his arms are tired, and he feels no shame about minimizing his level of active participation for this final stretch. He stopped trying to keep up with Geralt’s endless stamina years ago.

And Geralt is so gentle, so considerate that even his frankly tremendous size doesn't take too long to feel completely comfortable inside him. Geralt fucks into him easily, each thrust deliberate and deep, stretching Jaskier so wide it feels like he’s got Geralt in every corner of his body. It’s the drag, the lightly burning stretch as Geralt’s cock presses waves of pleasure into him—

Jaskier thoughtlessly reaches down to feel at his own cock, and it’s completely hard again. He realizes he has it in him to finish. Again.

Geralt apparently reads him like a book and his thrusts grow sharper. Right on cue, a large hand clutches a handful of Jaskier’s hair and pulls gently with the perfect amount of light yet very present pressure.

It’s what Jaskier needs to bring him closer to the edge and then send him tumbling over—finishing into his own hand as Geralt’s breathing and rhythm go erratic. Then, Geralt is pulling out and spilling warm on Jaskier’s lower back (they still haven’t quite figured out how this whole “male pregnancy” thing works, and until they do they’ve decided to be careful about it for the most part).

They clean up with Geralt’s linen shirt, and they collapse into one another contentedly.

Geralt’s shirt may be beyond salvaging at this point. The room smells unmistakably like sex. They’re both sticky with sweat and spend. Jaskier is drained, both figuratively and literally. His ass is tender, jaw’s a bit sore, muscles putty. _Oh_ , and his back. He’ll definitely need to buy some herbs for the pain before they leave Rodromir.

Still.

“We did it,” groans Jaskier, voice muffled against Geralt’s pectoral. He weakly shoves a fist triumphantly into the air, then allows it to fall back down to Geralt’s chest with a clammy thwack. 


	6. Little Friend

Jaskier never had much of a reason to think about children. He had nothing against them in particular—Ciri was one, after all, so there obviously were some children out in the world who were perfectly delightful. But Ciri was in a thankfully un-childlike stage of her childhood, and Jaskier was perfectly content having her be the only child he knew for the rest of his days. So it wasn’t so much that Jaskier  _ disliked  _ children as much as he just...wanted nothing to do with them. As a result, he was careful to ensure that he’d never have anything to do with them.

Now was he as careful about it as he  _ could _ be? Eh. Usually. 

...actually, no, not usually.

But! Considering he had never gotten anyone pregnant before, he must have been doing something right. Either that or he was sterile, which would have made all the sense in the world. Why on earth would the gods have given him his charm, a ravenous libido,  _ and _ the ability to procure offspring? What chaos would that combination have sprung forth?

And so it was said libido—that blasted,  _ cursed  _ thing—that had driven Jaskier to pull Geralt atop him inside some dilapidated temple one afternoon. Not an ideal location for doing the devil’s dance by any means, but it hadn’t been the strangest place he had ever initiated sex, and the witcher had appeared more than happy to participate. A good time for all.

It seemed one minute Jaskier was being pounded into the stone floor of that temple, and the next he was cleaning his own vomit off his lute.

The month after that was decidedly  _ not  _ a good time.

He felt like his stomach was constantly in his throat; foods, certain movements, and even some entirely mundane smells would cause him to gag. He managed for a while, but once it became clear to him that something was amiss, he did the only thing he could with Geralt gone and consulted a healer.

_ Complete  _ waste of time. The healer was unable to find anything wrong with him, just sold him some stomach-soothing herbs to brew and drink, and told him to lay off the wine.

As Jaskier shuffled away from the healer's hut with his bag of herbs and no real answers, he noticed that just the smell of the herbs was making him sick. He tossed the bag disdainfully onto the side of the road and resolved to just wait the illness out. It was an annoying bout of nausea and fatigue, that’s all. And whatever he had specifically, it wasn’t plague. It was the only useful piece of information he was given, so he felt alright about just letting his mystery affliction run its course. Not long after, it did, and Jaskier was happy to think nothing more of it.

That is, until a couple more months passed, and he found himself in front of a mirror in Oxenfurt, doublet undone and shirt bunched up between his chest and chin. He turned this way and that, trying to make sense of a curious curve that had recently appeared on his middle.

Was he getting fat?

He’d never been fat, but he was relatively certain excess adipose tissue was supposed to move when it was prodded. This little bump was hard to the touch, almost as if he had eaten five times his fill. But here it was one morning, completely empty, yet firm and rounded out a couple inches from his body. It had even grown since the last time he had examined it closely like this, so this clearly wasn’t a problem that was going away on its own.

Jaskier ran his hands over the curve from top to bottom, cupping it there in thought.

Was he cursed? Had some terrifying creature burrowed itself inside of him, growing until it would soon burst forth and claim his cold body as its first meal? Hm. That would be less than ideal. And if he didn’t know any better, he might have even thought he looked—

No.

It couldn’t be  _ that _ . Ridiculous. It had to be a curse or a murderous parasite. But how could he have incurred either?

Jaskier tried to recall anything odd that had happened over the past few months since he had begun to feel and look differently. Had he offended any crones? Eaten anything strange?  _ Done  _ anything strange?

Well, yes. Strange-ish. He had fucked Geralt in that temple. 

In hindsight, fucking in scary, ancient temples seemed like a surefire way to get oneself cursed. Perhaps that’s what had made it so exciting in the first place. Damn.

Jaskier sighed, pressing a finger into the unyielding bump on his stomach as he forced himself to remember everything he could about that afternoon.

He and Geralt had gone to the ruins of an old vila temple dedicated to...fertility? Or was it the hunt? Doesn’t matter. Anyhow, the thing was like every other old, crumbly ruin he had ever visited with Geralt during their travels. He had stood back until the witcher disposed of the wraiths roaming the place and then joined him in searching for some amulet. Nothing particularly of note had occurred except for, well, the  _ other _ activity they had gotten up to.

Jaskier dropped his shirt and sat down on his bed, arms crossed and a fist underneath his chin as he worked to tease out the connection. If what occurred that afternoon was the reason he was now growing a bump on his middle,  _ why? _

Vila temple. Alright, he knew a bit about vily. Ethereal, ageless spirit women who stole men's hearts with song and dance, or so the stories told. They were a race long gone, having been hunted and bred out of existence generations ago. Now, all that remained were their ruins and descendants.

According to Jaskier’s mother, his own family had distant vila ancestry. Then again,  _ every  _ family seemed to have  _ some  _ sort of vila or dragon or some-other-ancient-majestic-being blood in their line conveniently far back enough that no one could prove it. Jaskier had always dismissed the “vila ancestry thing” as just the sort of apocryphal tale that becomes familial lore after generations of mistelling and misremembering. Nothing more.

_ But _ .

It  _ was  _ peculiar that he was past 40 yet hadn’t aged a day past 25. His peers were all graying, their skin beginning to wrinkle, yet somehow he had managed to stop time.

And ethereal beauty? Stealing men’s hearts with song? Well.  _ Obviously _ .

Hm. Perhaps there was something to this whole “vila ancestry thing,” after all.  It would explain a lot. But weren’t vily supposed to be female?

No. Not always. The pure vily of yore were all female, but they interbred with elves and humans. The part-blood offspring that resulted from these unions were  _ mostly  _ female, but it wasn’t unheard of for a male child to slip through occasionally. In fact, one of the tell-tale signs of an ancestral line with vila blood in it was the presence of very few, if any, male children.

Jaskier considered his own line. He had three sisters. Only aunts and female cousins on his mother’s side. His grandmother...also only had sisters. 

_ Oh, gods. _ The slow aging, the inhumanly exceptional musical talent, the much-higher-than-normal number of female relatives. And then there was that other thing about vily. That other  _ trifling  _ thing.

Part-vila men, as rare as they were, had the ability to carry children, or so the lore said. It wasn’t a common occurrence, but it was still possible under certain conditions. Conditions perhaps like…

...fucking in an ancient vila fertility temple?

The timing lined up. He’d spent that month nauseous and tired. He was  _ growing a bump _ ...

The strained sound that came from the back of his throat was involuntary and undignified. He brought his hands up to cover his mouth, but a huff of laughter escaped past his fingers. Then another. Then, as he sat alone in his room, a fit of manic laughter tore through him. He laughed violently at the sheer absurdity of it all, unable to stop himself until his breath was short and tears welled up in his eyes.

Jaskier rode out the last of his laughing fit with a shaky sigh, wiping his eyes with the back of his wrists. He pressed a hand against the swell on his abdomen as he worked to catch his breath again. 

Alright. Okay. Where was he? Yes, pregnant. 

What now?

Ah, yes. Of course.

Find Geralt.

* * *

Jaskier sat one night on a tree stump outside a tavern on the outskirts of Gors Velen, toe tapping anxiously on the gravel beneath. He didn’t know if the morning sickness was back or if the bile in his throat was due to the suspense alone.

The already elusive witcher had proved significantly harder to find while in hiding with Ciri, understandably. It took Jaskier a few months to catch up with him, which may as well have been an  _ eon  _ in pregnancy time. By then, he was far past the point of being able to pass off his growth as innocuous weight gain. His approach had shifted to just concealing his growing middle the best he could by wearing all of his trousers untied, doublets unbuttoned, and hiding under the roomiest cloaks he could find. Physical discomforts on top of the uncertainty surrounding the whole situation had made his past few months a misery—a misery he hoped would be ameliorated soon, now that Geralt was set to meet him any minute.

When Jaskier finally spotted the familiar sight of Roach and her esteemed rider coming up the road in the distance, his mind was immediately wiped blank of all he had planned to say. All those hours rehearsing, only to forget. Damn. Why hadn’t he written it down?

Roach was now strolling to a stop right in front of him.

Oh gods, there he was. Geralt of Rivia: looking every bit like the hero he was, sitting proudly atop his trusty steed, hair billowing—actually  _ billowing _ , for Meletile’s sake—in the wind.

The witcher smiled when he took note of him. Jaskier tried to make the smile he returned appear genuine, but he didn’t know how successful he was in that endeavor.

Jaskier stood slowly from the stump, mindful of his aching back. “Geralt of Rivia, you are a hard man to find.”

“By intention,” Geralt said good-naturedly as he dismounted, “But it’s never seemed to stop you.”

Giving Roach’s reins a quick loop around the hitching post, Geralt then asked, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Jaskier gulped. “S...something came up.”

Geralt sauntered forward with a predatory glint in his amber eyes until his hulking figure was fully in Jaskier’s space. He removed his riding gloves and threw them onto his shoulder, one by one. He had no business making  _ walking  _ and  _ taking his gloves off _ look so good.

_ Focus, Jaskier, focus. _

“Something came up?” Geralt rasped as his bare hands came up to cradle Jaskier’s cheeks, eyes locked onto his lips. 

“Um, yes...it’s important.”

Geralt hummed and began leaning in for a kiss. “Must be.”

No. There was no time for distractions, especially the kind that would have Geralt in close enough proximity to find out about Jaskier’s ‘condition’ on his own. Jaskier had to say something. He frantically tried to remember how he had planned to cushion the blow, but his mind was still blank. Damn. Something. Just say  _ something _ .

Panicked, Jaskier artlessly choked out, “I’m pregnant.”

Geralt froze.

Jaskier froze. Everything froze.

The witcher drew his face back a bit, brow furrowed in confusion and eyes apparently searching Jaskier’s face for a hint of his usual sarcasm. Searching for the joke.

“I’m serious,” said Jaskier, “Look.”

He pushed his cloak open and drew up his shirt to show Geralt the now-prominent belly jutting out from his middle. “See?”

When he looked up to meet Geralt’s eyes, they were fixed in horror on the bump. Geralt’s hands slowly dropped away from Jaskier’s face to clench into fists at his sides. 

“Jaskier,” he said slowly, “What is that?”   


Jaskier let the cloak fall back over his belly, placing a hand protectively over the crest of it as he was wont to do these days. “A baby,” he answered, “The kind people generally get pregnant with.”

Geralt’s gaze was still fixed on his middle, and Jaskier realized that his act of _showing up pregnant_ out of nowhere probably could use some sort of framing or context. 

He cleared his throat, continuing, “I suppose I should explain. Turns out I’m part vila, you see. From gods know how far back in my line. But however much I am, it’s enough that I was able to get pregnant—which, as you probably know what with being a witcher and all, vila men can do. No curses necessary, no shenaniganry—well, if you don’t count the old-fashioned type of shenaniganry, which is how it happened. And I suppose if there's shenaniganry in a spooky old vila fertility temple, it’s likely to result in, well,” he glanced down at his body, “this.”

Jaskier paused, then finished, “You’re the father, if that wasn’t clear.”

Geralt’s skin went a shade paler, and his eyes snapped up to Jaskier’s face. “What?”

“You’re the father. Or, the  _ other  _ father.”

Geralt shook his head. “I’m sterile.”

“Not in a spooky vila fertility temple, you’re not.”

“Jaskier, you don’t understand—”

Jaskier put up a finger. “Ah. But I do. You’re a witcher, and witchers are rendered sterile during the witcher-making process. You wouldn’t be a witcher unless you were sterile, and you’re sterile because you’re a witcher, yes?”

Geralt opened his mouth to speak, but Jaskier continued on, “It should be impossible for you to bear children,  _ bu t! _ If, hypothetically, you were to somehow, magically conceive a child against your very nature, how would that happen? Perhaps with a vila in a vila fertility temple where vily presumably have gone for ages to solve their fertility problems? Hm?” 

Geralt opened his mouth to speak again, but Jaskier couldn’t stop himself from adding, " And I know what you’re thinking. ‘ _ Oh Jaskier, how could you possibly be so sure of the parentage of your unborn when you’re one of the most talented and prolific lovers the continent wide? _ ’ To that, I say: this is undoubtedly true, but only partly true. It just so happens that at the time this... _ predicament _ arose, you were the only person I had bedded for a long time. In fact, as embarrassing as this is to admit, I’ve been as chaste as a priestess of Melitele apart from you ever since our first time in that camp.”

Pausing for a breath, Jaskier waved the hand not perched upon his belly in Geralt’s direction obligingly. “So there, both of your objections, duly addressed.”

A silence passed between the two of them. Geralt’s fists unclenched and clenched again. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. A harsh line formed between his brows as he visually struggled to process all of this information.

Just as the silent tension had Jaskier thinking he may actually, definitely vomit, Geralt croaked out, “Jaskier, I. I don’t know what to tell you. It’s not...It can’t possibly...are you even sure about what this is? That it’s…”

“A child?” Jaskier finished for him, “A non-monster one? Quite. I’ve had it confirmed by two different midwives; one nearly died on the spot. Now, I wouldn’t mind getting a witcher’s opinion as well, but I’m quite certain at this point, yes. Now the part I’m not sure about, and where I may need your help, concerns what happens from here on out. I think for what I’d say are obvious anatomical reasons, this poor thing will have no way of coming out once it’s time. It can’t just live in there forever, and all of the abortifacients I’ve heard of push the thing out  _ that way _ , and—Geralt?”

Geralt had winced—a pained, seemingly visceral reaction to something Jaskier said. 

“Geralt, are you alright?”

Geralt spent a moment more out of focus before replying quietly, “You’ll need to have it cut out.”

Jaskier groaned and his shoulders fell. He supposed there was always a chance at this being the answer, but it didn’t make it any easier to hear.

“Really?” he asked sadly, “There’s no...magical, witchery way of doing it, is there? One that wouldn’t involve me dying?”

Geralt’s scowl deepened. “You’re not going to die. I’ll make sure of that.” 

“Oh, good,” Jaskier said with a deep sigh of relief.

And really, that’s all he needed to hear, and who he needed to hear it from. He hadn’t the slightest idea what made the witcher so confident, but he didn’t need to know. Geralt said he was going to be safe, so he was going to be safe. All there was to it.

Jaskier smoothed his hands over his bump, a calming habit he’d picked up some weeks back. It was nice to know  _ he  _ wasn’t going to die, but there was still one more question on his mind.

“And I…” he started, a bit hesitant, “...I suppose there isn’t a way to get this little troublemaker out alive, as well, is there?”

The fingers of Geralt’s dominant hand twitched towards his palm, as if clutching for a weapon that wasn’t really there. It was an almost imperceptible nervous tick of his that Jaskier had picked up on over the years. It was rare, too. Geralt often got cranky, or restless, or on his guard. But he was almost never  _ nervous _ .

Geralt gulped then responded with the slightest crack in his voice, “Is that what you want?”

“Well, it hardly matters what I want if it isn’t possible,” Jaskier said before shyly, carefully asking, “Is it...you know, possible?”

Geralt paused, then nodded once. “It is.”

Oh.

Oh, wasn’t that something?

The life growing inside him was impossible to ignore (and increasingly so) over the past few months, but Jaskier knew he couldn’t make the mistake of actually growing attached to it. The poor thing had been doomed from the beginning. It had to have been, right? It had been conceived under peculiar circumstances to say the least, then trapped in his body with no means by which to get out. From the beginning, it had just made the most sense for Jaskier to assume that his companion was a tragically temporary one. Assuming as much would make it easier to say goodbye when it was time.

And now, here was Geralt telling him that the little friend in his belly could survive. And be an actual baby.  _ Their baby. _

“Jaskier?”

Jaskier blinked to attention. “Hm? Yes, sorry. I…I was going to say, um...”

Trail of thought broken, he shifted his weight from one leg to the other and grimaced. His hand moved from his belly to his lower back. 

“Sorry. Back hurts.”

Geralt bolted into action and took Jasker’s arm, concern writ upon his face. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine. It’s just been a long way, and it hasn’t been made easier by this extra bit here.”

“Come inside.”

Geralt ushered Jaskier inside the tavern as if he was made of porcelain and sat him down by the fireplace. With a light brush of his lips to Jaskier’s forehead, he was then off to buy him something to eat.

Jaskier shifted in his seat, trying in vain to take some pressure off of his back. Relieving the pain there was getting harder and harder to do by the day, but as tired and uncomfortable as he was, nothing could have ruined the charm of having Geralt fuss over him like that. It was precious. Paternal. 

He looked down at his bump and quietly said, “See, I told you everything would be fine. And you were  _ so  _ worried.”

With a pat to the crest of his belly, he added, “You performed splendidly, by the way. Hit all your cues.”

Talking to his belly was another habit Jaskier had picked up over the past months. He’d done it despite knowing it was unwise to grow too chummy for his own heart’s sake, but things were different now. It was established that his little friend was here to stay, so he could get as attached as he liked with his baby; tell it whatever he liked. He could recite the little one poems, sing it songs, share his life’s story with it now if he wanted to.

As he excitedly pondered all of the tales he’d tell his baby in the months to come, Jaskier looked over at Geralt, who was standing near the tavern owner’s table. Jaskier leaned his chin atop his fist and just stared at the witcher’s broad, sword-mounted back with stars in his eyes.

He really was a sight, wasn’t he? Jaskier had traveled far across fabled lands and seen his fair share of beautiful things, but Geralt had always been the true wonder. He’d also always been Jaskier’s favorite subject to write about, yet he always proved the hardest to truly capture. So wonderfully complex—so  _ abundant _ with contradictions.

Beauty and terror. Battle-hardened hands that were capable of the most tender touches Jaskier’s ever felt. A shy, guarded soul destined to live in a physical form that commanded others’ attention wherever he went. So committed to not involving himself in the affairs of others, yet always somehow saving the world.

There truly was no one Jaskier would have rather shared this new ‘parenthood’ adventure with than this profoundly beautiful, endlessly fascinating being.

Then, as if sensing Jaskier’s gaze, Geralt turned around. There was a concerned look on his face until his eyes met Jaskier’s, at which point his expression softened slightly in apparent relief. 

  
Jaskier smiled. Oh, Geralt was going to make a  _ splendid  _ father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vily don't appear much at all in the Witcherverse, but they're cool creatures, so I figured they deserved a starring role here. 
> 
> Also, to those who've left such kind comments + kudos, thank you. Praise warms my now-yearlong-pandemic-ravaged heart.
> 
> <3


End file.
